


What I Am

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Gabriel is the worst, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Traumatized Aziraphale (Good Omens), Victim Blaming, Workplace-sanctioned rape, but it ends real soft i promise, theres a lot of angst, uhhhh this one’s dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23798878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale knows what he is, in Heaven. He’s dirty, and tainted, and easy. He’s good for working off stress. He’s a lower angel, a demoted Cherub banished to Earth and forbidden from saying no. He’s Gabriel’s favourite, though he doesn’t understand why. He knows all too well what he is. But it doesn’t matter. Because Heaven is good, and all that they do must be good in return. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much he hates it. Heaven cannot possibly bewrong.Right?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/various angels
Comments: 27
Kudos: 436
Collections: Anonymous





	What I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii welcome back to Angstville!! 
> 
> This is inspired by [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2645081) on Dreamwidth. 
> 
> Please be nice, I wrote this in a fugue state in like two days so it’s not beta’d and barely proofread, but here we go anyways bc fuck it all. 
> 
> Please, please do mind the tags– we’re delving into some dark territory here. If I missed anything that I should have tagged for, please let me know– I would hate to hurt anyone! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!!

It wasn’t so bad, really. 

Aziraphale clung to that thought even tighter than he was clinging to the sheets, trying desperately to brace himself against Gabriel’s movements. It was hopeless, of course, and it always had been, but he still tried, even after so long. He still tried to do what he could to lessen the pain. 

He’d learnt early on to miracle himself slick and open when he was approached by someone above him with that look in their eye (and it seemed that all of Heaven was above Aziraphale, sometimes, but he knew far better than to complain), and that helped. It helped quite a bit. 

It never made this _pleasant_ , but it was better. 

Today wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t tied down, he wasn’t bleeding, Gabriel was alone. If Aziraphale closed his eyes, if he tuned out the sound of Gabriel’s voice and the scent of him, lavender and ozone and sweat and lust, he could almost pretend. Almost imagine that, instead of a violet-eyed angel, it was instead a red-haired demon moving above him, within him. 

It was a dangerous, blasphemous thought. If anyone knew, Aziraphale would face far worse than the occasional visit from his superior officers, and Crowley would be put in danger, too, and that was entirely unacceptable. Aziraphale knew, better than he knew just about anything, that Heaven and Hell could never find out what he felt for his demonic best friend. 

But, despite that knowledge, imagining Crowley… it made it easier. It made it almost bearable, on those days when whoever had come to visit– Gabriel, usually, it was most often Gabriel, regardless of what form it took– had decided to be nice, to make a play at being gentle. Aziraphale pictured Crowley, imagined the demon fucking him instead, and he almost managed to seem as though he were enjoying it. 

Gabriel’s thrusts quickened, and Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, the pain and the smell and the low chuckle in his ear shattering his desperate fantasy. 

Aziraphale redoubled his grip on the sheets beneath him, fighting against a whimper. He knew he ought to be grateful– it was an honour, really, for an Archangel, one of the leaders of Heaven, to take such an interest in him, a disgraced former Cherub stationed on Earth as punishment for his stupidity. He knew that he was _lucky_ , knew that this was good, because Heaven was good, and Gabriel was good, and they couldn’t do something wrong. It was the Flood, it was Egypt, it was Job, it was Sodom and Gomorrah, it was Babel, it was the Crucifixion. It was Heaven’s Will. It couldn’t be _wrong_. 

Above him, Gabriel thrust one last time, coming with a low groan, and then slid out, leaving Aziraphale to slump back onto the sheets, opening his eyes for the first time since Gabriel entered him and still wresting desperately against his tears. 

“Hm,” Gabriel said, staring down at Aziraphale, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve got work to do, don’t you?” 

Aziraphale nodded, forcing himself to speak as he slowly, slowly sat up. “Y-yes, I do.” 

“So I can’t just leave you here for me.” 

It wasn’t a question, so Aziraphale didn’t respond. 

Gabriel sighed. “Pity we couldn’t recall you to Heaven, after all. I could have kept you in my office, left you there ready for anything.” 

Aziraphale stayed silent. He had known, on some level, what the promotion he’d averted (or, rather, Crowley had averted for him) just sixty-two years ago had entailed, but to hear it spoken aloud felt rather different. 

“Ah, you already are, aren’t you, champ?” Gabriel said, punching Aziraphale on the arm, a little harder than necessary, and miracling his own clothes to rights. “Right. Well. Up you get, can’t have you lazing around forever. We’ve got work to do, miracles to perform, and Heaven to run! I’ll see you later.” 

And with that, Gabriel was gone. 

Aziraphale dropped back down and curled into a ball on his side, his breath coming in desperate pants. All of the fear, the pain, the shame of Gabriel’s visit crashed over him in a wave, and Aziraphale choked on a sob, curling himself tighter. This was Heaven. This was _right_. It was Aziraphale that was broken, that was _wrong_ , for hating it so much, for wishing it would be over, for wishing he could refuse his superiors’ desires. 

He had tried that, early on. The orders regarding this practice, that lower angels were to do exactly as their superiors ordered regardless of what it was, had apparently come through while Aziraphale was stationed in Eden, and when he’d first been visited not long after his demotion, before the scars on his back had even fully healed (by Gabriel, that first time, too, and Aziraphale knew now how lucky he had been even then, even disgraced and broken and foul as he was, to attract the attention of someone so far above him), he’d refused. 

Gabriel had been _furious_. He’d dragged Aziraphale to Heaven, fucked him over his desk, and then chained him up in the main hall for whomever wanted to have at him. 

Lord, that had been the longest twelve years of his life. The worst part of it, he thought, wasn’t being used, wasn’t the pain or the mess or the filthy words whispered in his ear. The worst part was the _humiliation_ of it, knowing that he was little more than an object, utterly helpless and resigned to whatever was done to him, by whomever wanted to do it. It was horrible, and Aziraphale had detested every second of it. 

After twelve excruciating years, Gabriel had unchained him, fucked him once more, and then sent him back down to Earth, where Adam and Eve had had two children and Crowley was waiting for him. 

Aziraphale had only ever tried to refuse once more, when Sandalphon had pulled him aside just after Sodom and Gomorrah and pushed him to his knees, sneering something about _celebration_. They both still stank of ash and soot and holy fury, and Aziraphale still had tears in his eyes and the image of Lot’s poor wife dissolving in the wind was branded into his mind, and when Sandalphon had yanked on his hair, Aziraphale had reacted on instinct, jerking himself away. 

He’d only been left there for three years, that time, before Gabriel came to free him once more, though not before Aziraphale had thoroughly proven how sorry he was. 

Kneeling there, on the cold marble of Heaven, with hundreds of eyes on him and both Gabriel and Sandalphon inside him, Aziraphale had thought briefly of hellfire, had wondered for just a moment whether it really would be worse to Fall. 

Of course, the idea was ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. What Heaven did was good, righteous, just. Hell was worse, immeasurably so, and not seventy years ago now, Crowley had all but confirmed it. Aziraphale couldn’t even imagine what poor Crowley must be going through Downstairs, but he knew that it had to be worse than being occasionally fucked (or beaten, or both) by his betters. 

Of course, those weren’t the only times he’d ever been set out in the main hall– it was a fairly common reprimand, and Aziraphale had gotten more than his fair share of those over the years. It was just more evidence, really, of how he was broken, failed, _wrong_. He was the problem, he had to be, because Heaven was good, and what they did was good, and if Aziraphale couldn’t meet their standards, if he failed his orders, then he was bad. It made sense. It was the way of things. It had to be. 

In the present day, Aziraphale jerked himself out of his memories as forcefully as he could, and packed the day’s events into the same box in his mind where all such things went. As Gabriel had said, he had a job to do, and Crowley had asked to meet at St. James that afternoon. 

When Crowley handed him a note with _Holy water_ scrawled across it, however, Aziraphale panicked. He thought of Gabriel, of Heaven, of pain and degradation and wishing desperately that it could just be over, that he could step into the oblivion that awaited their kind after death and never see another angel again. He thought of Crowley, undoubtedly suffering far worse in Hell, of him dissolving away into nothing, of a life, a _world_ , without Crowley in it, a world made infinitely darker and colder and more miserable for his loss, and he panicked. He snapped some nonsense about _fraternising_ and stormed off, leaving Crowley behind, and when he arrived back in the bookshop, it took every ounce of willpower that he possessed not to sob. 

He realised his mistake a day later– Crowley had asked him for help, had gone to him, had _trusted_ him, and he’d thrown that trust back in his face. He had to make it right. He couldn’t push Crowley away. 

Aziraphale arrived at Crowley’s flat, flowers in hand and an apology on his lips, to find that Crowley was asleep. He looked so peaceful, so calm, the worried furrows in his brow smoothed for the first time in centuries, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to wake him. He left the flowers in a vase, with a note and a protective blessing and a promise to return later, and left the flat. 

When Crowley hadn’t responded after a month (and two more visits from Gabriel, and one from a Power whose name Aziraphale hadn’t even known and whose tastes apparently ran rather violent), Aziraphale went to his flat again, to find the demon still asleep and an assignment from Hell sitting on his desk. 

He thought of Crowley’s constant circling, of the worry lines between his brows, of rude notes and holy water, and opened up the missive. The assignment was easily done, and Aziraphale had written enough reports alongside Crowley to know how he normally did it. And so long as Crowley was safe, it didn’t matter how exhausted Aziraphale was. He was more than used to setting aside his own happiness to help others, not just for Heaven, but for humanity. What was one more sacrifice? 

It took twenty years, alone but for Gabriel and whomever else decided to visit him, for Aziraphale to become unmanageably lonely. It was a little bit absurd– he had certainly gone longer without companionship in the past. But being near Crowley, seeing him so frequently, had spoiled Aziraphale, and the glimpses of Heaven he received weren’t enough to quiet the aching in his chest or the tightening of his throat. 

Aziraphale joined a discreet gentlemen’s club, and learned how to dance, and met a good many doomed souls doing their best to live happy lives despite what seemed like the whole world’s best efforts (he wasn’t sure he would ever forgive Alfred for what he’d done to Oscar, which was undeniably unangelic, but then again so was Aziraphale), and made sure to always, always leave before the lights went out. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was _capable_ of saying no at this point in his existence, and as such it was best to avoid such things entirely. 

He continued in this vein for years, until the Hundred Guineas closed, and the world fell into war. 

Aziraphale was sent to the front lines, here, fighting on the British side. He had fought in the very first War, after all, and so who better to meddle in such things on Earth than him? He worked as a medic, this time, citing the leg wound that Heaven always seemed to forget about when Gabriel questioned him about it, and provided as many miracles as he physically could, regardless of the reprimands he received and who came to deliver them. 

And then the Great War ended, and the flu that followed it ended too, and Crowley still hadn’t woken up, and between the blessings and the temptations and the mountains of paperwork, it seemed that this recent bout of violence had led more angels to take an interest in Earth, which meant more angels dropping by to visit Aziraphale. 

He knew what he was, in Heaven. He was soft, and pliable, and easy, and strange. He was the one angels went to when they wanted to feel powerful, to feel dangerous. The demoted Cherub, stuck permanently on Earth, obsessed with the humans and their short, mayfly lives. Half of Heaven had to have fucked him by now, but not a one of them would acknowledge him when he came Upstairs, not beyond perhaps pulling him into what passed for broom closets in Heaven for something quick and dirty. Aziraphale knew his purpose, knew his worth, knew how low both of them were (and it was good, it was righteous, it was just, it _had_ to be, even if the longing for hellfire grew with each hand around his arm, around his throat, each angel he encountered). 

And then, finally, _finally_ , Crowley awoke. 

Aziraphale waited for the demon to contact him first– he would never wish to push his company on his friend, never ask someone to do something they were uncomfortable with– but he never did. And so they returned to what once had been, eons ago, orbiting one another, never truly crossing paths, and that ache in Aziraphale’s chest grew just that little bit sharper. 

Until, suddenly, there he was. 

Eighty years had passed, eighty years of silence and pain and fear, and then it was as though none of it had ever happened, as though they’d seen each other yesterday, their back-and-forth resuming as Crowley danced down the aisle of a church to rescue Aziraphale once more. 

And the _books_ , oh, the books. Crowley saved Aziraphale’s books, though he had no reason to, and he handed them over with a glib little line, and Aziraphale realised three things in quick succession. First, that he was utterly, completely, and irrevocably in love with the demon Crowley, and had been for centuries, millennia. Second, that there was a chance, however infinitesimally small, that Crowley loved him back (it didn’t seem possible, not Aziraphale, he was vile and tainted and worthless, but _why else would he save the books?_ ). 

And third, that if anyone in Heaven or Hell discovered either of the above facts, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley would survive it. 

“Coming, angel?” Crowley called, already halfway through the rubble back to his automobile, and Aziraphale nodded, stumbling after him in a daze, for the very first time ever feeling wildly thankful for his thousands of years of practice at keeping his tears at bay. 

“You alright?” Crowley asked, opening the automobile door for Aziraphale. 

“I… yes, I’m perfectly… I’m… wait, Crowley, your feet, are _you_ alright?” 

“M’fine,” Crowley said, shrugging and starting the car. 

Aziraphale tutted softly, but let Crowley drive them both back to the bookshop. When he stopped outside, they both hesitated, and the air between them felt thick and heavy with all the things unsaid. 

_I’m sorry._

_I missed you._

_I was lonely. I was afraid._

_I’m sorry._

_I love you._

_I’m so very sorry._

“Would you like to come in?” Aziraphale offered. “I can set your feet to rights.” 

Crowley looked over at him, slow and hesitant and… hopeful? “Yeah. That… yeah. Sure. Thanks, angel.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Aziraphale said. _I have hardly earned your forgiveness, let alone your thanks. Let me do this for you. Let me help you._

They went inside, and things became as they once were. 

It was better, when Crowley was around. When Aziraphale could call him up, when he would drop by to visit, when they could meet for lunch or dinner or a show or a drink and talk and laugh and just _be_ , far from Heaven and Hell and all their troubles. 

And then Aziraphale began to hear rumours, of a red-haired stranger and a planned heist, and his very worst fears were realised when his contact in the Witchfinder Army, a young (and slightly mad) man called Shadwell, reported that Crowley intended to rob a church. 

There was only one thing he could want, and Aziraphale thought again of hellfire and Gabriel, of pain and fear and the desperate hope that it would all just _end_ , of Crowley facing so much worse, to the degree that he would seek an out for himself, regardless of the consequences. He thought of a world without Crowley, of darkness and sorrow and eighty years of an ache that was never gone, only distracted from, of careless humans who would never understand the danger they were putting him in, and he made a decision. 

On his next visit to Heaven, Aziraphale didn’t flee back to Earth as soon as the Archangels had let him. Instead, he wandered through the halls, ignoring the stares and whispers thrown his way, and found himself standing before the armoury sooner than he was entirely prepared for. 

“Yes?” the angel sat out front asked, not bothering to look up from their copy of the _Celestial Observer_. 

“I, um,” Aziraphale said, “I was hoping to withdraw some holy water. Straight from the source, ideally.” All holy water was dangerous to demons, but that did not mean it was all created equal– holy water made by an angel was more powerful than that made by a human, and water blessed by the Almighty Herself, well. It would be quick, and nearly painless, if Crowley… if Crowley ever… 

Aziraphale shoved that thought aside as the angel before him looked up, then did a double take. “D’you have a permit for that?” 

“I, um. Not exactly. The request was rather… rather off-the-books…” Aziraphale said. 

He watched the angel watching him, saw their gaze move slowly up and down, saw the sudden glint in their eye. Aziraphale knew well what he was– in fact, he was rather relying on it. 

“I think we can come to an agreement,” the angel said, standing up and gripping his arm like a vice. 

“Excellent,” Aziraphale said, and he let himself be dragged deeper into the armoury, let the angel do as he pleased, and walked out not half an hour later, limping slightly and clutching a tartan thermos to his chest. 

That night, Crowley parked his beloved Bentley close to the bookshop’s door, and when he emerged from the bar, when young Shadwell pulled him aside, Aziraphale took advantage of the distraction to miracle himself into the passenger seat. 

He knew what this was. Holy water had nearly torn them apart before. They hadn’t spoken for eighty years over it. Aziraphale knew, if handed this over now, holy water stolen directly from Heaven’s stores, the last shreds of his plausible deniability would fall away. Crowley would _know_ , and Aziraphale’s fragile barriers would be shattered. 

He held out the thermos, handing over his heart with it. 

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked, glancing over at him, very nearly caressing the thermos. 

Aziraphale thought of darkness, of pain, of the angel earlier today, of the lingering soreness he’d long been forbidden from miracling away, and said softly, “Better not.” 

“Can I… drop you anywhere?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale thought he knew what he was saying. 

_Let me thank you. I know what this means to you. Let me show you what it means to me._

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale said, and this was so much harder than he had thought it would be. He knew pain, he knew it well, but _this_ , the open, hopeful look on Crowley’s face that shone through even with his glasses, the way he held so tightly to that thermos which contained what could very well be Crowley’s death some day, the fact that if he did decide to end it all, his death would be on _Aziraphale’s hands…_

Crowley’s face fell at Aziraphale’s words, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear the way his chest clenched at the sight. He didn’t want to cause Crowley pain– that was the whole point of this. 

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale said. “Maybe someday we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” 

_Don’t leave me, Crowley. Please. I can’t be what you want me to be right now, not with Heaven and Hell hovering over us, but I will be ready some day, just_ stay with me _until then, please_. 

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you wanna go,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could hear the naked _hope_ in his voice, and it tore his shattered heart to pieces. _We can do those things_ now _, angel. We don’t have forever. Come with me now, please_. 

Aziraphale wanted, so desperately, to give in. To throw caution to the wind, to go with Crowley, to give in to everything he’d ever wanted and leave Heaven behind. 

Then he shifted, and pain flared through him, and Aziraphale remembered who he was, _what_ he was. An angel, bound to Heaven’s will, no matter how much he loved the wonderful, beautiful, kind, contradictory creature beside him. Heaven would never let him go, _Gabriel_ would never let him go (and it was _good_ , it was _right_ , it _had_ to be). 

And so Aziraphale turned to the love of his life and said, in a trembling voice, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” 

_I love you. Don’t leave. We can’t, not now, maybe not ever, but I love you anyways and I couldn’t bear it if you left. Please don’t use what I gave you, please don’t leave me, I love you too much to loose you._

Then he climbed out of the car, closing the door behind himself, and barely managed to make it back to the bookshop before his sobs overwhelmed him. 

And so, life continued. Holy water racked itself onto the end of the near-endless list of Aziraphale’s daily anxieties, and he and Crowley continued to meet, and angels continued to visit Aziraphale on Earth, though it happened rather less frequently now than it had immediately following the World Wars (except for Gabriel, of course, Gabriel was nearly as constant as Crowley, and Aziraphale was _grateful_ , truly, because it was right and just and good, it had to be). 

And then, Armageddon came. 

Aziraphale knew that Heaven would help him stop it. They were _good_ , after all, and no one good could possibly stand by while billions died on Earth just so that millions more could be killed in Heaven and Hell. There was absolutely no way that such a thing could ever be good. Heaven would not abide it. 

Would they? 

As the time drew closer, Aziraphale clung desperately to that hope, to that fervent belief, that Heaven and its actions, that all of the pain Aziraphale had suffered for six thousand years, was good and right and just, even as it began to crumble beneath him. Even as the Archangels destroyed his hopes, even as he pushed Crowley away in a desperate last-ditch attempt to save him from Hell ( _Heaven would never abide my running away_ , Aziraphale thought as he stood in the bandstand, on the street corner, listening to Crowley’s impassioned pleas, _but if_ you _ran alone, my dear, it might just work. Go. Save yourself, please. I must do what I can, here_ ). And then he spoke to the Metatron, who told him the very same thing that Gabriel had said earlier that morning, and the realisation hit Aziraphale like a brick to the face. 

Heaven was _wrong_. 

Heaven wasn’t going to stop the war. They didn’t care. It was up to Aziraphale and Crowley, and Aziraphale knew where the Antichrist was. He knew where everything was happening. And he knew that they were running out of time. 

The second the Metatron vanished, Aziraphale telephoned Crowley, who hung up on him with a line about an old friend, and then the door to the shop flew open, and Aziraphale, idiot that he was, stepped into the circle. 

The discorporation was painless, which was perhaps the only saving grace of the entire affair, because then Aziraphale found himself in Heaven once more, with the ancient scar on his leg throbbing and the Quartermaster screaming in his face (he liked quick, messy blowjobs in the back corner of the training grounds, behind the weapon racks, and he always came on Aziraphale’s face– he’d ruined a perfectly good ascot not twenty years ago). 

But Heaven was _wrong_. Aziraphale knew it, now. They were wrong about the War, they were wrong about Armageddon. And Aziraphale could stop it, he knew he could! He knew where the Antichrist was, he knew what he needed to do (and, of course, the thought made him sick, but Aziraphale had gotten to be very, very good at doing things that made him feel foul and dirty and wrong for the sake of the greater good). And so he very nearly swan-dived out of Heaven, and he found Crowley (and the poor thing sounded so upset, but they didn’t have time, they didn’t have _time_ ), and, in a slightly roundabout way, Armageddon was stopped. 

On the bus ride home, with Crowley’s hand in his, a thought passed over Aziraphale’s exhausted mind, which was largely occupied by sussing out what exactly was meant by the scrap of prophecy clutched in his hand. 

_If Heaven was wrong about the War… what else were they wrong about?_

He shoved the thought aside for the time being. He didn’t have time to think on it, not now. Right now, he needed to find a way to protect Crowley once more, to keep him safe, because they had just chosen each other after six thousand years of fear, and Aziraphale was _not_ about to lose Crowley now. 

He knew, on some level, what needed to happen. That didn’t mean that he _liked_ it. 

_Well_ , he thought, _if there is some sort of weapons exchange happening, it’s not as though Heaven will have time to let everyone who wants to have one last go at me. And there is a difference between_ eccentric and tainted _and_ traitor _. I doubt even Gabriel would want me anymore._

And, oh, the _relief_ that brought… 

The bus slowed to a stop, and Aziraphale tugged gently on Crowley’s hand, whispering, “We’re here, my dear.” 

“Ngk.” Crowley sat up, fixing his glasses, and together, never one letting go of one another, he and Aziraphale made their way up to his flat. 

The second the door hit, the stink of sulfur and ozone, the unmistakable smell of used holy water, hit Aziraphale in a wave, and he very nearly staggered back, his grip on Crowley’s hand tightening. 

“Angel?” Crowley asked, turning to look at him as the door swung shut behind them, locking itself. 

“The holy water,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh, shit,” Crowley said. “Yeah. Hastur and Ligur came by earlier, tried to drag me downstairs, so… I used it.” 

One hundred and fifty-seven years of terror was suddenly thrown into sharp relief, and Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath, clinging to Crowley that much tighter. 

Crowley took a deep breath of his own, vanished the now-empty bottle of wine from his hand, and pulled off his sunglasses, turning to face Aziraphale, never once moving to pull his hand free from the angel’s grip. When Aziraphale looked up at him, he saw that Crowley was staring down at his feet, his cheeks pink and his breath short. 

“…Crowley?” Aziraphale breathed, taking a half step closer to him, wanting to reach out but unsure of whether it was welcome. 

“I thought I lost you,” Crowley breathed. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Wh-what?” 

Crowley’s eyes met his, gorgeous and golden and open and shining with tears, and he said again, “I thought I lost you, angel. You were– I came as soon as I could, as soon as I’d gotten rid of Hastur, but it was too late, the shop was burning and I couldn’t _find_ you–“ His voice broke, and he wiped furiously at his eyes. 

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed. “I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Why’re you sorry?” 

“I said such awful things–“ Aziraphale began. 

“And so did I,” Crowley said. “We were both scared and stressed and not thinking straight. You have nothing to apologise for, angel.” 

That… that didn’t make sense. Aziraphale knew what he was. He was wrong, broken, foul. He had believed in the wrong thing, he had hurt Crowley, he– 

“Angel… canIholdyou?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry?” 

Crowley cleared his throat, his face flushing red. “It’s just… it’s been a really bloody long day and I thought– I thought you were _gone_ and I just wanna hug you but you don’t have to but I thought maybe–“ 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his voice quiet, shaking. “Y-yes, Crowley, please–“ 

Crowley didn’t hesitate. The moment he had Aziraphale’s permission, he wrapped the angel up in his arms, pulling him close and holding him tightly, and Aziraphale let out a soft, desperate noise, his hands flying up to clutch at the back of Crowley’s jacket. He buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, breathing in the scent of him, something warm and earthy under the burnt rubber and metal of the broken Bentley, and he fought to keep control of himself. He couldn’t cry, not now, not yet. Not when Crowley needed him, not when he still needed to protect his demon. 

Aziraphale’s grip tightened on the scrap of prophecy, and, unwilling to pull back even an inch, he whispered into Crowley’s jacket, “I think I have it worked out.” 

“Worked out?” 

“The prophecy. ‘Choose your faces wisely.’ I think… they’re going to try to kill us. Heaven and Hell. They won’t– they won’t let us get away with what we’ve done.” 

Crowley’s arms tightened, his hands fisting in Aziraphale’s brand-new ancient coat. “I won’t let them. I swear, Aziraphale–“ 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said softly, and now he had to draw back in order to cup Crowley’s face in one hand, to wipe away the tears on his cheeks. “I know what we have to do. Heaven will try to use hellfire for me, I’m sure, and for you…” 

“Holy water,” Crowley said, nodding, shifting so that he could grip Aziraphale’s wrist, clinging onto him. 

Aziraphale nodded sharply, forcing aside the mental images that had haunted him for more than two centuries now. “Yes. But– but holy water can’t hurt me, and hellfire can’t hurt you. So if we were to switch– if you were to go Upstairs, and I went down…” 

“But how–?” Crowley cut himself off, his eyes going wide. “Choose our faces… bloody witch, bloody prophecies. We need to swap. Angel, you’re bloody _brilliant_!” 

Aziraphale blinked, then blushed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say _that_ …” 

“You are,” Crowley insisted, tugging Aziraphale a little bit closer. “You’re brilliant, and kind, and wonderful, and, angel, you _saved the world_ today, and I just…” He pressed his cheek a little harder into Aziraphale’s hand, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, angel, I love you _so much_.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, feeling his eyes burn with tears yet again. “I– oh, Crowley, I love you, I’ve loved you for so long, longer than I could possibly say.” 

Crowley’s eyes flew open once more, wide and hopeful, his lips parted ever so slightly. “Angel…” 

“My love,” Aziraphale said, leaning forwards to press his forehead to Crowley’s, hating every inch of space between them. 

“Can I… can I kiss you?” Crowley whispered. “I really want to kiss you.” 

“Oh, please do,” Aziraphale breathed, and then Crowley was tilting his head, closing that last, spare distance, and their lips met. 

It was rare that the other angels would express any interest whatsoever in kissing Aziraphale– he knew what he was, and he wasn’t the sort that one _kissed_ – but when they had, when Gabriel had, because it was largely Gabriel who had kissed him, it was always hard, and sharp, and almost painful. It was violent and dominating and vile. 

Kissing Crowley was none of that. 

Kissing Crowley was the unimpeachable beauty of the first ever sunrise, the warmth of a cup of cocoa on a cold winter day, the soft, indulgent gaze that saved his coat and bought him crêpes and made _Hamlet_ a success. Kissing Crowley was hope and safety and _love_ , love, so much love that Aziraphale felt he might burst from it. 

After a small eternity spent drowning in Crowley’s touch, Aziraphale pulled back, gasping for breath he didn’t need, to whisper against Crowley’s lips. “Oh, my dear, my darling, my love. I love you, Crowley, I love you so much, more than I could ever possibly say.” 

In lieu of responding, Crowley tilted his head forward, joining their lips once more, and Aziraphale whimpered softly into the kiss, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to fall. 

They clung to each other for what could have been minutes or could have been hours, desperately, hopelessly in love, before Aziraphale eventually pulled back again, his hand tangling in Crowley’s hair to press their foreheads together again. “Crowley. Crowley, we need– we need to swap.” 

“Right,” Crowley said, pressing one last, short kiss to Aziraphale’s lips before drawing back, his hands finding Aziraphale’s and gripping them tightly. “Right. Um. It probably… we probably shouldn’t look like we spent the night together. If they think we had time to plan…” 

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said. “I, um. I would probably head back to the bookshop.”  
Crowley’s face fell. “Angel…” 

“I know it’s gone,” Aziraphale said. “But I would… I would want to see it for myself. And… and, well, aside from here… I wouldn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

Crowley nodded. “After a day like today… yesterday? I think it’s yesterday by now. After a day like yesterday, I’d sleep. Like, a lot.” 

Aziraphale let out a soft laugh. “I know, dear. So… I’ll stay here, then, and you’ll head to the bookshop?” 

“We should meet up,” Crowley said. “If we haven’t heard anything by, say, noon, we ought to meet up.” 

“St. James?” Aziraphale offered. “By the ice cream stand near the duck pond?” 

“Sounds good,” Crowley said, grinning. “Let’s, um. Let’s do it, then.” 

Aziraphale nodded, closed his eyes, and they swapped. 

It wasn’t quite like a possession– it was deeper than that. The very molecules of Aziraphale’s body _became_ Crowley, and vice versa. They flowed through each other, into one another, and then Aziraphale was opening his eyes and looking down into his own face. 

His bow tie was askew, and his lips were slightly swollen from the kisses he’d shared with Crowley. 

“Woah,” Crowley said, and it was utterly bizarre to hear his own voice and have nothing to do with it. “This’s weird.” 

“It is, rather,” Aziraphale said, smiling slightly. Then he straightened up and tugged on the bow tie around Crowley’s neck. 

Seeing this, now, it was making it all feel very real all of a sudden, and Aziraphale realised that, aside from wild speculation, he had no idea what sort of reception Crowley might receive Upstairs. 

“Crowley…” he said softly. “Promise me you’ll be careful?” 

“Always am,” Crowley said, shrugging, which was an extraordinarily weird thing to watch Aziraphale’s body do. “That’s my middle name, careful.” 

“I wasn’t aware careful started with a _J_ ,” Aziraphale said, smiling slightly, before the weight of the situation settled on him once more. 

If this went well, all of Heaven would think that Crowley was Aziraphale. 

_Gabriel_ would think that he was Aziraphale. 

“Crowley, please, promise me you won’t– won’t try to antagonise Gabriel, or– just do as they say, please, it– it makes it easier, please–“ 

“Angel,” Crowley said, tightening his grip on Aziraphale’s hands. “Angel, listen. I’ll be alright, yeah? I can handle a couple of pompous Archangels.” 

Aziraphale nodded, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to calm down. Of course, Crowley wouldn’t be worried. He had faced far worse in his time, they both knew that. He would be fine. 

Still, Aziraphale couldn’t quite quiet the churning anxiety in his gut. 

“What about you?” Crowley asked. “Will… are you gonna be okay in Hell?” 

Aziraphale smiled softly. “I’ll be just fine, dear.” 

Crowley frowned. “If they hurt you…” 

“I’ll be alright,” Aziraphale promised, squeezing Crowley’s hands. “You… I hate to kick you out of your own home, but you ought to go, if we don’t want them to become suspicious. Just… please, Crowley, be careful.” 

“I will,” Crowley promised. He shifted slightly, straightening up, his posture turning into Aziraphale’s into an instant. “I’ll see you at St. James, my dear.” 

Aziraphale fought back a smile, slouching back and stuffing his hands into Crowley’s too-small pockets. “See you, angel.” 

And with that, Crowley was gone. 

The swap worked. 

Aziraphale had almost expected that it wouldn’t– after all, when was the last time something in his life had gone the way he wanted it to? But here they were, he and Crowley, driving home from the Ritz, and Aziraphale felt nearly giddy with love and hope and relief. 

He was free. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have to do what Heaven wanted. What _Gabriel_ wanted. And Crowley was _safe_ , safe and free and here with him, and Aziraphale had never been happier. 

He led Crowley into the bookshop, beaming around him to see it in perfect shape– he hadn’t seen it burned down, but the thought of it was enough to make him ill. Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale wandered through the shelves, brushing his fingers along the spines of his books, feeling his body begin to relax. 

And then hands appeared on his hips, and lips pressed against his neck, and Aziraphale felt his entire body tense, his breath hissing in sharply. 

“Angel?” It was Crowley. Crowley’s voice in his ear, Crowley’s hands on his hips, Crowley’s body pressed against his. Not Gabriel, not Sandalphon, not any of the other angels, and Aziraphale forced himself to relax. If this was what Crowley wanted… well, Aziraphale knew that Crowley was his better in every way. It only made sense. And maybe… maybe with Crowley, the object of his fantasies for so very, very long… maybe it would be different. 

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asked, making a conscious effort to relax further, but then Crowley was stepping back, tugging Aziraphale around, and the angel cursed himself mentally. 

“You alright?” Crowley asked, pushing his glasses up onto his head to search Aziraphale’s face. 

“Perfectly,” Aziraphale promised, and it was true, it _was_. “You just… startled me slightly.” 

Crowley frowned, his brow furrowing. “Angel…” 

“I’m all right,” Aziraphale said, smiling up at his demon and reaching out to cup his face. 

Crowley leant into his hand, eyes fluttering closed for a short second before he opened them again, the concern in them having lessened somewhat. 

“Good,” he breathed, leaning in, and Aziraphale closed his eyes and met Crowley’s lips with his. 

The kiss started gentle, started sweet, but quickly grew into something else, something a little more familiar, although it was still far kinder than Aziraphale was used to. 

_I could do this_ , Aziraphale thought, letting Crowley back him up slowly and press him against a bookshelf. _If it’s Crowley, I can do whatever he’d like. Whatever would make him happy. I owe him that, after everything._

Crowley moved his mouth from Aziraphale’s to kiss down his jaw, one hand coming up to tug at his bow tie and the other sliding slowly down to rest at his hip– 

_Hard, bruising hands, tearing his tie off, gripping his hips, Gabriel’s voice in his ear, telling him to be a good little angel and turn around now, he knows how Gabriel likes it, and maybe if he’s good enough he’ll get out of this without any new scars–_

Aziraphale gasped sharply, his eyes flying open, and Crowley immediately drew back, his hands stilling and his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face. 

“Angel, do you want to stop? Should we do something else?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale blinked, blushing slightly. “I, um. We can do whatever you’d like, my dear.” 

Crowley’s frown deepened. “That’s not what I asked. What do _you_ want?” 

Aziraphale blinked again, frowning. That… didn’t matter, did it? Not here, not in this. It never had before. Aziraphale knew what he was– what he thought, what he desired, they didn’t count for anything. 

Crowley’s face grew more and more worried with every passing second. “Angel. Have you… done this before?” 

Aziraphale fought to hold back an incredulous laugh at that. He had lost count of it, of the number of angels, of the number of times, some time before the Flood. “Have I… yes. I have.” He realised something, then, and a spike of fear struck him. “D-does that… is that… does that bother you?” 

“No,” Crowley said, “not at all. I’m just… surprised, I guess. I wouldn’t have thought… I thought Heaven had rules against that, after the whole Watchers thing, y’know?” 

“Oh, it wasn’t with humans,” Aziraphale said, before he could think better of it. 

Crowley’s eyes went wide. “You– you were with– you– _what_? Angels? Who? When?” 

Aziraphale winced. If Crowley didn’t know what he had been in Heaven, well. It was probably best to be honest, but at the same time, Aziraphale knew all too well what happened when those around him realised who he truly was. “I… Crowley, I don’t think… I would… would rather not.” 

Aziraphale almost expected Crowley to push, to demand answers, to pull the truth from Aziraphale regardless of what he said, but instead, the demon just grinned and offered his hand. “Fair enough. Let’s go open up a bottle of something, yeah? What’s your best _we-just-saved-the-world_ wine?” 

Aziraphale let out a surprised laugh, letting Crowley pull him to the sofa in the back room, where they settled down together and Crowley miracled a few bottles of something or other and glasses from the cellar and poured for them. 

“By the way,” he said, handing one of the glasses to Aziraphale, “if you do want to talk about it, I promise I won’t get jealous.” 

Aziraphale snorted. “Oh, dear. You have nothing to be jealous of. I’ve only ever loved you.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley muttered, his ears turning red. “Right. That’s… yeah. I mean, you– you, too, it’s only ever been you, I just...” Then he cleared his throat. “Can I… why, then? I just… I mean, for me, I was lining and horny and stupid most of the time, but, I dunno... maybe I’m wrong, but you didn’t strike me as the casual sort.” Then he winced. “That… that didn’t come out right, but… you know what I mean, yeah?” 

Aziraphale shuddered. “Well. You know how Heaven is. Obedience above all else.” 

Crowley froze, his eyes darting up to meet Aziraphale’s. “ _Obedience_?” 

“Yes, of course,” said Aziraphale. “Though I think the orders about it first came through at some time during Eden, so it would have been after your time.” 

Crowley’s gaze had grown snakelike, dangerous, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. “My dear?” 

“Orderssss?” Crowley asked, a hiss slipping into his voice. “What ssort of orderssss?” 

“Just that– that lower angels weren’t to disobey their betters,” said Aziraphale, entirely nonplussed. “That we were to do as they said, regardless of what it was.” 

With every word Aziraphale spoke, Crowley’s expression grew darker and darker. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, utterly bewildered and more than a little afraid. Had he already messed this up, too? “I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean–“ 

“No,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “No, you haven’t done anything wrong, I just… so Heaven… someone _raped_ you?” 

Aziraphale blinked, his mouth falling open. “That– no, no, it wasn’t like that! It was just– just–“ 

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was soft and achingly gentle. “Did you want it, what they did to you?” 

Aziraphale bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears. “That… that hardly matters.” 

“That’s all that bloody mattersss!” Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to see that Crowley’s were glittering with tears. “Angel, I am so, so sorry.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head desperately, his hand desperately seeking Crowley’s, squeezing it tightly. The wine glass he’d been holding had vanished, and he wasn’t sure when or how, but that didn’t matter. “No, it wasn’t– it _couldn’t_ have been. Heaven was– Heaven was right, they were good, they _couldn’t_ –“ 

“They did,” Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand gently. “I’m sorry, angel.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, no, no…” If they were wrong… if what Heaven had done _wasn’t_ – then what had he suffered for? Why had any of it happened, if it wasn’t for the greater good? 

_Why didn’t She stop it?_

“Oh, _angel_ ,” Crowley said, his voice soft and almost wounded, and Aziraphale realised belatedly that he was crying, great, desperate, gasping sobs that tore through him. 

Aziraphale reached out blindly, and Crowley caught him, pulled him close, held him tightly, whispering soothing nonsense into his ear and rubbing his back gently. Aziraphale breathed in the scent of him, woodsmoke and warmth and the earth after rain, so far removed from anything found in Heaven, and six thousand years of pain and fear and humiliation all hit him at once, pouring out of him as Crowley cradled him close. 

It felt like hours before the crying eased, thought it couldn’t possibly have been nearly so long. Eventually, though, the near-painful sobs passed into quiet, hitching breaths, and Aziraphale lifted his head off of Crowley’s now-soaked shoulder, sniffling softly. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, wiping at his eyes weakly. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Crowley said, his voice gentle and his own cheeks a little damp. “You have _nothing_ to apologise for.” He snapped his fingers, materialising a glass of water, and held it out to Aziraphale. “Here. That was… fuck, Aziraphale, I am _so sorry_.” 

“Oh, now don’t you start,” Aziraphale said, sipping gratefully from the glass– it was the perfect temperature, cool enough to ease the soreness in his throat without being too cold, even if it did taste slightly of metal. Or perhaps that was just Aziraphale’s mouth at the moment. “I’m sure that compared to Hell–“ 

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “Hell was… I mean, it sucked, but it was absolutely _nowhere near_ workplace-sanctioned-rape levels of suck. Worst thing that ever happened to me was Hastur discorporating me during a performance review because I managed to call him an idiot fifty-three times in one presentation. And that was pretty much it. What you went through…” Crowley bit his lip. “Can I… can I ask… can I ask who it was?” 

Aziraphale winced. “I don’t… I don’t want you to… I don’t want it to change how you see me.” 

“It won’t,” Crowley said, shaking his head. 

“It _will_ ,” Aziraphale said miserably, “I know it will, it always does.” He knew what he was, he knew it all too well, but Crowley _didn’t_ , and if he could keep it that way– 

“Angel,” Crowley said softly. “I won’t make you tell me, I promise. I won’t ever make you do anything you don’t want to. But I just… I want you to know that you’re absolutely bloody incredible. You’re so clever, you’re brave, you’re unbelievably strong. I _love_ you, so, so much, and nothing you say is going to change that. I _promise_.” 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed, setting the half-finished glass of water aside to reach out for his demon, pulling him close once more. 

Crowley held him tightly, smoothing his hand ever so gently up and down Aziraphale’s back, and then said softly, “I just… there’s just one thing I need to know.” 

“Anything,” Aziraphale said, despite the fear that spiked through him at those words. 

“Last night… when I kissed you. Did you… did you actually want that, or did you just… think you had to?” 

The fear transformed into a deep, powerful ache, somewhere in Aziraphale’s chest, and he drew back far enough to lock eyes with Crowley once more. 

“Crowley, my love, I have wanted to kiss you for thousands of years. I… sometimes, when I was… when it… well. I would imagine you. When it was… gentle. I would pretend that it was you, and it was… it was almost bearable, then.” 

“Oh, angel…” Crowley breathed, his hands coming up to cup Aziraphale’s face, to brush away the tears that were beginning to fall again. “Angel, I love you _so much_. But… but you have to tell me, okay? I promise, I swear to you, I will never, ever do something to you that you don’t want. I’ll be better than all of bloody Heaven, I _swear_ it, but you… you have to let me know. When I fuck up, when I do something you don’t like, when I ask for something… please, Aziraphale, _please_ , tell me no.” 

Aziraphale exhaled shakily, nodding. “I-if that’s what you want, my love, I– I’ll try.” 

Crowley’s face broke into a watery smile. “Brave angel. Fuck, I love you.” 

“I love you, too, my dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling back. “I, um. Oh, perhaps this isn’t the right time…” 

“What is it?” 

“Might I kiss you again?” Aziraphale asked. “I just… it’s… of course, if you don’t want to, that is more than fine, I just thought–“ 

Crowley leaned in, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s to stem the tide of excuses, and it was just as soft and sweet and gentle as their first. Aziraphale felt himself melting into it, his hands seeking out Crowley’s face, pulling him in close, a flower reaching for the sun, and– somehow, somehow, Aziraphale didn’t know how he’d gotten so wildly lucky– the sun reached back. 

And so, they settled into a new sort of routine. Crowley spent almost all of his time at the bookshop, now, and he and Aziraphale did almost everything together. They ate and drank and went to shows and even films together, and at night, Crowley would curl up in bed, and Aziraphale would sit beside him with a book, which he would inevitably set aside halfway through the night in favour of watching over Crowley as he slept, something he hadn’t done at all since the 19th century, and had never once done freely. Now, there were no more secret glances, no more stolen moments, no more double-speak. They were free, out in the open, and Aziraphale could tell Crowley how much he loved him whensoever he chose, could hold his hand, could _kiss_ him. 

There were… moments. When Crowley’s hands wandered a little too far, gripped a little too tightly, and Aziraphale remembered a time when the hands holding him hadn’t been nearly so kind, when he hadn’t had a choice. Every time, the second Aziraphale’s gasps turned sharp or his body tensed or he broke away with a flustered apology, Crowley would step back, would give Aziraphale as much space and time as he needed, and then, when the time came, would hold him close again, peppering soft kisses across his face and whispering gentle words into his ear. 

It was… different. It was _nice_. And Aziraphale was _happy_. 

So, of course, it couldn’t last. 

A little over three weeks after Armageddon fell through, Aziraphale found himself alone in the bookshop. Crowley had gone out to check on his plants with a promise to be back soon and bring home something from the little bakery around the corner, and Aziraphale was using the chance to update his inventory with the changes that Adam had made to his catalogue (which largely involved the addition of several children’s series, mostly involving cowboys, aliens, and the improbable combination of the two). 

He was elbow-deep in his files, trying to find the best place to categorise the _Just William_ series, when a chime sounded over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale froze, his hands clenching on the paper he was holding and very nearly tearing it. 

“Hey there, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, his voice dripping with condescension. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale replied, setting his paper down and turning to face the Archangel. “I thought I made it clear that I wanted to be left alone.” 

“You’re still an angel, aren’t you?” Gabriel said, flashing him a grin that didn’t even approach his cold violet eyes. “That means you still have duties to perform.” 

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, and he clasped his hands together in front of himself. “S-surely you can’t– can’t mean–“ 

“You’re not about to say no to me, are you, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked, raising one eyebrow. 

“Gabriel, please,” Aziraphale said, taking a step back and bumping directly into his desk. “You can’t– I don’t work for you anymore, you tried to _kill_ me, I _won’t_ –“ 

“You will,” Gabriel said calmly, walking forwards until he was crowding Aziraphale against the desk, looming over him, one hand trailing slowly up his arm. “You’ll do exactly what I ask you to do, and _maybe_ I’ll consider not bringing you back Upstairs to answer for your insolence. I’m sure you remember how much we can do even without hellfire, and I know that there are plenty of angels who would _love_ to see you again.” He stepped even closer, pressing himself entirely against Aziraphale, and Aziraphale realised with a sick sort of twisting in his stomach that the Archangels was hard already. 

“Gabriel, _please_ ,” Aziraphale begged, clutching desperately to the desk behind him. 

“There we go,” Gabriel said, grabbing Aziraphale’s chin to force his head still. “That’s what I want to hear.” 

He leaned in, and Aziraphale closed his eyes, struggling futilely against Gabriel’s grip– 

And then something was shoving him back, and Aziraphale’s eyes flew open to see Crowley standing between him and Gabriel, dark scales crawling across his skin and fury in his voice. “Get your filthy fucking handsss off of him.” 

“This is Heavenly business, demon,” Gabriel said coldly. “It doesn’t concern you.” 

“Thiss isn’t _businesssss_ ,” Crowley snarled, “this isss _rape_ , and you’re never going to touch him again!” 

“Oh, how touching,” Gabriel said, flashing a broad, corporate smile. “Have you told him the truth yet, sunshine? Does he know what you are?” 

Aziraphale’s grip tightened on the edge of the desk, and faintly, he could hear the wood begin to splinter. “No, Gabriel, please don’t–“ 

“You’ve picked a pretty shitty angel to fuck,” said Gabriel, his grin broadening. “Though I will admit he’s good at it. Probably all that practice he got, hm? But I’m sure a _celebrity_ like yourself could do better than Heaven’s filthiest little whore.” 

“You sssick piece of–“ Crowley hissed, taking a step forwards. 

“No!” Aziraphale cried, grabbing onto his demon’s arm. Crowley was fast and clever, but Gabriel was an _Archangel_ , and Crowley wasn’t a fighter. Aziraphale couldn’t let him get hurt. 

“Cute,” Gabriel said. “Defending his honor. Not that he’s got any of that left. Did you tell him how easily you would give in, sunshine? How quickly you learned what we all liked? Always so wet and ready for me, willing to do _anything_ –“ 

“If you don’t get the fuck out right now, you will _wish_ I had used hellfire,” Crowley snarled. 

Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat. He couldn’t– 

Gabriel took a step back, raising his hands in an almost conciliatory gesture. “Hey, I just wanted to let you know the truth about your new pet.” 

“Get _out_!” Crowley roared, and Gabriel vanished with a _pop_. 

All at once, the strength seemed to go out of Aziraphale’s body, and he nearly collapsed against his desk, gasping for air that just wouldn’t come. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, and then there were arms around him, thin and strong, holding him up, leading him through the bookstore and settling him down onto the sofa, and Aziraphale still couldn’t think, he couldn’t _breathe_ , everything was too much and there was nothing he could do– 

“Angel, look at me.” Crowley. That was Crowley’s voice. Those were Crowley’s hands, gripping his. That was Crowley there, kneeling in front of him, a vision in black and red. “Breathe. Look at me. Aziraphale, please, just breathe.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes finally met Crowley’s, and he noticed that they were fully yellow, wide and horrified, and the sight jarred something loose in him. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I’m so sorry–“ 

“No,” Crowley said, shaking his head firmly. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault, Aziraphale.” 

“But it was true, everything he said, it was all _true_ ,” Aziraphale said, tears blurring his vision. 

“Aziraphale–“ 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again, “I should have told you, I should have– you deserve so much better, I’m so sorry– I know what I am, Crowley, I’m broken, and tainted, and foul, I’m half of Heaven’s dirty little secret, I’m the one they all come to for something easy and wrong, I– I–“ 

“Aziraphale, listen to me,” Crowley interrupted, squeezing the angel’s hands tightly. “Listen. They were _raping_ you, angel. _None_ of it was your fault, and _nothing_ that Gabriel just said was true.” 

“But I–“ 

“You were hurt, so, so badly, for a such a long time, by a lot of absolutely monstrous angels,” Crowley said, his thumbs stroking small circles across the backs of Aziraphale’s hands. “That doesn’t make you _any_ of the things he said. You’re not dirty or broken or tainted or any of that bullshit, angel. Do you wanna know what you actually are?” 

“Crowley…” 

“You’re brilliant,” Crowley said, lifting one of Aziraphale’s hands to press a gentle kiss to the back of one of his hands. “You’re so bloody clever that you talked Heaven and Hell out of Armageddon– you know, the thing they’d been working towards for _six thousand years_. You’re kind, and good– you gave away your sword to Adam and Eve, because you knew it was the right thing to do, regardless of what Heaven thought. You protected the people that God cast out, and then you did the same thing to me– shielding me from the first rain with your wing. You didn’t even think about it, you just _did_ it, and that was the moment I knew I was done for.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed again, reaching out to cup his demon’s face in his hand. 

Crowley nuzzled into his touch, holding his wrist loosely, gently. “You’re so much fun, angel, the most fun I’ve ever had. You always manage to make me laugh, to keep me on my toes. Do you know how hard it is to still surprise someone after knowing them for six thousand years? And yet, you do it every single day.” He pressed a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s palm. “You’re brave, angel, and strong, so bloody _strong_ , I can hardly believe it. What you’ve been through… six thousand _years_ of rape and abuse. I don’t think I would have survived it, but look at you. You’re still here, and not only that, you’re still _you_ , clever and brave and a bit of a bastard sometimes.” 

He kissed Aziraphale’s hand again, oh so gently, and then met Aziraphale’s eyes. “You want to know what you are? Angel, you’re my anchor, my best friend, the love of my fucking life. I love you, Aziraphale, I love you _so bloody much_ , and I promise, angel, I swear, none of them are ever going to touch you again. I’m never going to let another angel hurt you. I _promise_.” 

“Oh, _Crowley_ , I love you so much,” Aziraphale sobbed, tugging his darling demon closer, and Crowley went, pulling Aziraphale into his lap and folding him into his arms once again, holding him close, warm and gentle and endlessly loving, and Aziraphale clung to him, breathing him in, head buried in Crowley’s shoulder as desperate sobs wracked his body once more. 

“I’m here,” Crowley breathed, rocking gently back and forth, one hand smoothing up and down Aziraphale’s back. “I’m here, angel. I’ve got you. I love you. I’m here. Let it out, yeah? I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I promise. I’m here. I love you.” 

Eventually, eventually, the sobs passed, and Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath, not quite ready to let go of Crowley just yet. 

“You alright?” Crowley asked, pressing a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. 

“I… I’m not sure,” Aziraphale answered, still a little too raw for anything but honesty. “I… I think I will be.” 

They sat in silence for a long moment, and Aziraphale caught his breath, felt his racing heart slow once more. 

“I’ve got an idea,” Crowley said. “How about we get out of here?” 

Aziraphale blinked, leaning back slightly in order to better see Crowley’s face. “Sorry?” 

“Let’s leave London,” Crowley said, his eyes open, earnest, _hopeful_. “Go somewhere that Heaven and Hell have never been, just the two of us. We’ll take your books and the Bentley and... I dunno, get a cottage somewhere.” 

“But you love London,” Aziraphale said, a little bit dumbfounded. 

“I love _you_ ,” Crowley said. “And you settled in London. So long as you’re with me, I don’t care where we go.” 

Aziraphale felt as though something had gripped his heart in a vice. He beamed up at his demon, brushing a gentle thumb across his cheek. “How _romantic_.” 

“Oi,” Crowley protested, “no need to be rude.” 

Aziraphale laughed, then sighed softly, leaning up against his demon. He felt exhausted, drained, but also… better. Lighter. 

And, of course, Crowley was there, and anything was bearable so long as that was true. 

“We don’t have to,” Crowley said. “If you don’t want to leave, we don’t have to at all. I just thought… y’know, we have a lot of good memories here, but there’s also… also a lot of bad ones. It might be nice to start fresh somewhere, to have a place that’s just ours.” 

“I think that sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale said, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to Crowley’s cheek. Crowley turned into it, and their lips met gently, softly, warm and sweet and full of so much love. 

“Great,” Crowley said when they parted, a dopey sort of grin on his face. “Awesome. Cool. Right.” He blinked, coming back to himself slightly. “We don’t have to go too far– it might be nice to be able to come back to the city every now and again, for dinner or a show or whatever. Just… y’know. A place, just for us.” 

Aziraphale smiled at his demon, his love, then shifted slightly, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder, his forehead against the demon’s neck. “Do you have a location in mind, then?” 

“Actually,” Crowley said, “I was looking at a little place in the South Downs.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this mess!! Please tell me what you think, I live for your feedback!!!!


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